Your World For a Moment
by Spinyfruit
Summary: "If you take a flower in your hand and really look at it, it's your world for a moment." – Georgia O'Keefe. Arthur is a sweater-vest-wearing, hipster-living, Poetry graduate student stuck in a writer's block. Alfred is an up-and-coming artist who paints what he wants. And he wants Arthur.
1. Chapter 1

"If you take a flower in your hand and really look at it, it's your world for a moment."

– Georgia O'Keefe

Arthur Kirkland – 24/25, Francis Bonnefoy – 24/25, Matthew Williams – 23, Gilbert Bielshmitz – 27, Alfred Jones – 21/22, Feliciano Vargas – 19, Lovino Vargas – 19, Antonio Carriedo – 27

* * *

Chapter One.

_Reverie_, Camille Corot. 1860-5. Oil on wood.

* * *

Grey clouds. Grey dress. Grey face. How incredibly depressing. But…I feel just the same.

This is the fourth Saturday in a row I've visited the MET in the, apparently very vain, hope that I might find some inspiration for my final dissertation of my Ph.D in Creative Writing. I've walked through every one of the thirty rooms of the 19th and Early 20th Century European Paintings and Sculpture; found Monet, Rembrandt, Degas, and other masters, yet not one has rescued me from my writer's block. At this rate I won't even be able to draw a picture of what my poems would've looked like.

Wait. Did I just say that? Really Arthur. You can't even sketch a circle, much less a book. The stress is obviously getting to me: I'm making irrational hyperboles. So with that, I rise from the bench, straighten my winter-green sweater-vest, and walk briskly out of the room. I don't bother glancing at any of the other galleries on my way to the stairwell, because really, can the Greeks or Romans compare to the advancements of Western European art? I think not.

I arrive at the first floor and, of course, I don't grant any courteous glimpses at the Egyptian or (heaven forbid) Modern art. Honestly, I don't know what happened to art over the past century. Where has the romance gone? What has happened to the artists' quest for beauty? It breaks my heart that the only art I enjoy has perished along with its masters.

The person before me holds the entrance door open for me and I thank them, but I pause on the top step outside the MET and look out. The clouds are grey, the New York skyline is grey, and it's starting to rain. Why can't I find the inspiration I need? It's as if I don't find beauty in anything anymore. I'm bored.

"_Mon dieu_! He's at it again."

"Um, should I say something to him?"

"What? What is he doing now?"

Bloody hell, do they really think I can't hear them? They're not even in another room and they're gossiping about me. Just ignore them Arthur…

"Matthew, go. Go and save him. He needs to stop this. It will kill him."

"Wh-what?"

"Oh my god. Someone tell me. What is Arthur doing? I can't look up until I finish this level of Angry Birds."

Seriously. They're in the kitchen, and I'm on the couch. There's only a counter dividing us. Surely they must know I can hear every word they're saying? Idiots.

"He's rereading all of Shakespeare's plays. On a Saturday night. Again."

"_Verdammt_! I lost. What? This has got to stop, like, now. Matthew go talk to him."

"Yes_ mon cheri_. Go do that."

"But why me? Why – "

"For God's sake, I'm right here. If you have something to say, just say it to my face!" I put down my, admittedly very heavy, vintage Shakespeare collection (I was going to slam it, but thought better of injuring such a precious artifact) and faced my suitemates. And of course, there they are, all three of them blatantly staring at me. The French one (well French Canadian) dressed to the nines in (what are they, Armani?) tailored, dark-wash jeans, a black button down shirt, and a fancy (Hermes maybe?) scarf tied neatly around his neck. Then the other Canadian (but from the predominantly English speaking, Western side) was sitting on the barstool, and fidgeting nervously, dressed rather nicely too: in black slacks, a lavender silk shirt, and a black blazer. Even the annoying German major (who swears that after living for a year in Berlin he is not even of German heritage anymore, but Prussian), who I usually see in nothing more than sweatpants and a t-shirt maybe, was sitting at the barstool next to Matthew, wearing light-wash jeans (with no rips), a clean white t-shirt, and relatively un-scuffed, black biker boots. Why the – oh wait I should say this aloud. "Why the hell, are you guys so lavishly dressed?"

Francis placed his hands on his hips and released a purposeful sigh in my direction, "Because it's Saturday night, Arthur. Haven't you forgotten what the civilized and cultured world does on Saturday nights?"

"Yeah, they go out and get hammered!" Gilbert raised his iPhone in the air, barely missing Matthew's cheek as he swung his arm.

Matthew didn't seem to notice however, because he looked at me with gentle indigo eyes, and said, "We're just concerned for you Arthur. You don't do anything but read and visit museums now. If you didn't live with us, you wouldn't have any social interaction at all."

"Why would I want to be social," I mumbled quietly to myself, as I continued to move my eyes across Shakespeare's iambic pentameter. I was hoping they didn't catch that last part, but then the damn Frenchman Canadian interrupted my reading.

"Because you need to experience life to write about it, no?" Francis smiled a knowing, and very smug, smile, and leaned gracefully against the counter.

"And what about drinking at a bar could possible help my poetry?" I returned my gaze to Juliet's prose: Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much –

"Gilbert was only joking. We're not going to a bar," Matthew smiled at me reassuringly. "We're going to visit PRATT's undergrad art reception. So it's art and culture?" He raised his hands pleadingly.

"Are they any good?" I asked evenly, trying not to express any emotion.

"Uh, yeah! Haven't you heard about them?" Gilbert waved his hand, again a bit too closely to Matthew's face. Why isn't Matthew noticing this? "There's a small group of them that just got back from travelling Europe, and they've been exhibiting some of their work each week."

"Oui," Francis interjected, and uncrossed one arm to make flamboyant hand gestures. "And this week it's urban landscapes."

I rested my chin in my hands and looked up pensively. I had to admit that did sound interesting. I've pretty much exhausted the MET at this point. I swept my eyes over my suitemates once more: God, they look so bloody desperate. Why is that? I've rejected them before. Actually I've only ever rejected them. Oh great, Matthew looks like he's about to cry in his pity for me. Oh – "Fine. I'll go. What should I wear?"

Gilbert raised his fist to the air, "YES! I knew it! I knew we could convince you."

"Right," I deadpanned. "So what should I wear?"

Francis gave me a once over and said a bit too-haughtily, "Well you most certainly can't wear that. Let me see if I can find something in your wardrobe for you." He left the kitchen and began swaying to my bedroom.

"What are the odds he'll pick out something not completely outrageous?" I asked Gilbert and Matthew, who were now both focused on Gilbert's phone game.

"Eeeh," Gilbert began without looking up. "Maybe fifty-fifty? I mean he can't have you look bad since you're going to be seen by all of the artists?"

"What the devil does that mean?"

Matthew slapped Gilbert's shoulder before turning to face me. "Um, he just means that Francis doesn't want you to embarrass him. Francis sees these people everyday, so I think he just wants you to look nice for them."

I stared at him. Well, Matthew talked rather smoothly, but his face obviously can't act, because his cheeks were flushing a rather extraordinary color of crimson. I pretended I didn't notice however, because honestly, it really isn't worth torturing poor Matthew over. Hopefully whatever convoluted plot Francis has dragged Matthew and Gilbert in isn't too inconvenient. I just want to go, (hopefully) find inspiration, drink some wine, and come back at a reasonable hour.

Then, dramatic as always, Francis's thick accent echoed through the apartment. "Arthur! I've laid out your outfit. Hurry up and change, because I still have to do your hair."

I put down my book and yelled back, "My hair? What the bloody hell is wrong with my hair?"

Francis poked his head from my doorframe, "My darling, have you even looked in a mirror these past weeks? I know this lived-in, hipster fashion is popular now, but that will only get you so far in life. You need to learn to dress properly. So many people –"

"Right, right. Fashion is serious business." I cut him off before he began campaigning his mission to bring fashion to everyone in the world. Again. That could go on forever, and I frankly do not have the willpower to sit through it more than once a week.

I got up and walked over to my room. Francis left my doorway and made his merry way to his bathroom: no doubt to procure his numerous hair products. So I turned to find my "perfect outfit" splayed out on the bed.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

_Dame in Krinolinen,_ Wassily Kandinsky. Oil on canvas.

* * *

Colorful and a lot of pretty dresses. Yes, I think Kandinsky's poster pretty much sums up this exhibition. I'm not sure why this is hanging outside of their gallery room though…

"Come on Arthur! Stop staring at the poster and come in! You're not going to meet anyone that way." Gilbert yelled at me as he made his way into the gallery, Matthew in tow. And Francis…where the bloody hell did he go?

I sigh, and look down at my outfit. At least Francis didn't go too overboard (that's about all I can say to commend him). I mean, I am wearing my own clothing for one thing, so at least it's things I bought knowingly. Of course, I hadn't planned on wearing my brown corduroys again, or my grey oxfords, just because they're very uncomfortable. I know I'm going to want to leave in an hour wearing these. But at least I was able to convince, okay, blackmail, Francis into letting me wear my olive green sweater vest over my cream-cashmere sweater. He may be a fashion major, but he can't diminish my English style.

I was about to walk in, but as my eyes were shifting focus from the poster to the doorway, I was yanked forward (with unpredictable strength I will say) into the gallery, almost falling into the arms of my tugger.

As soon as I gathered my balance, I stood up straight and yelled, "What the devil was that for?!"

The man (more like a boy really), looked up at me with large, soft brown eyes; and just as I thought he was going to cry he smiled and let out the strangest noise –

"_Veeee_! I was worried you were thinking about leaving, so I made sure you had no choice but to come in!"

"Oh," I began a little taken aback by the accent. "Are you from Italy?" It was a redundant question, I know, but the fact that he looked and sounded so stereotypically Italian, it seemed too obvious to be true. His hair was solidly brown, curling slightly at the ends, with one particular curl that was untamed. And, although he was wearing a rather decently-tailored, navy suit, it was covered, and I mean covered, in paint. It didn't seem deliberate, because there didn't appear to be any obvious designs hidden in the different splatters of color, but it also couldn't be an accident. I mean, an artist wouldn't paint in a suit, right?

He giggled (distinctly different from laughter) and grabbed my arm, "Yes! I'm one of the artists that was exchanged for the semester. My name's Feliciano Vargas, but you can call me Feli if that's easier. There are a lot of Americans I've met that can't pronounce my real name. Oh, but you're not American are you? Your accent is different. I wonder if –"

"Excuse me," I interrupted him. "But, um, why are you holding me by the arm?" I stopped walking so that I could force him to turn and face me. He complied, and I was again confronted with his large, shining eyes.

"Because I'm going to show you the exhibit!" He smiled, grabbed my arm (again), and began walking me over to a painting.

About halfway through the walk I realized I really wasn't going to be allowed to roam on my own, so I stopped struggling and walked in pace with Feliciano's skip. The first painting we stopped at was quite large (about eight feet and length and six feet high according the placard) but it didn't make much sense to me. It was – oh, how do I put this eloquently – emotionally chaotic. I'm not even sure what it's supposed to be. I know all of these paintings are under the category of urban landscapes, but exactly what landscape this is, I have no idea.

Feliciano let go of my arm, and I took the opportunity to cross my arms across my chest protectively. In my peripheral vision I can see him watching me, but I try to ignore him (like I do my suitemates) and concentrate on deciphering this painting. I tilt my head to the left and stare. There aren't many colors: it's primarily red-yellow blobs and splatters on the ground, a foggy mist of grey and yellow in the center, and a large section of black in the upper part. The only distinguishable object of the painting is a broken column, placed perfectly in the center of the gray-yellow fog. Well, it seems to have something to do with classic architecture – like Greek or Roman. Maybe this is Feliciano's painting? I make a side-glance at him, and I find him shameless staring at me; his body isn't even positioned in front of the painting anymore, he's standing (literally) a foot away from my side.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Do you like it?" He asks with an excited voice.

"I asked you a question first."

He pouted his lips and made a dramatic gesture with his hand. Here we go – "But it's not the same if I tell you what it is. It ruins the mystery."

I stared him down, hoping to intimidate him a bit. I've been told on multiple occasions that I look like, in Gilbert's words, "an angry bastard." It seemed to work because Feliciano stopped pouting and smiled.

"Okay, I'll tell you. But you have to promise not to tell Lovi, okay? He doesn't like it when I explain his work. He's so funny that way." He suddenly grabbed my face and twisted it towards the painting again. "Now look. What does the red look like?"

I was momentarily fixated on the fact that his fingertips were grabbing my scalp, but I did my best to ignore it and follow his directions. "Um, blood?"

"No, no, no! Blood doesn't look like that! It's too heavy! No, what else is red?"

I managed a quick glance to him, wishing he would catch the angry glint in my eye, but it's becoming clearer and clearer that Feliciano is not the sort to feel intimidation. I look again, and rack my brain for anything red and…blobby. "Um, lava?"

He releases my head and claps quickly. "_Si, si! Bravo!_ That's it! Good! Can you see the rest now?"

I look back at the red blobs, now dubbed lava, and try to compare them to the rest of the painting. "Is it supposed to be…Pompeii? What the –"

Feliciano tackled me in what feels like a hug; his paint-splatter suit wrapped around my pristine wool and cashmere. I swear to God if that suit isn't dry – "You got it! Oh, Lovi will be so happy!" He pulled back from the hug and pointed to another brunette standing across the room. "That's him over there! He's Italian too. Oh, but you probably already guessed that. Would you like to meet him?"

"Not really," I answered honestly. I was curious, but as Feliciano was pointing and waving to his brother, Lovi didn't seem too happy with the attention. His face turned red and he threw Feliciano an obscene gesture before storming off to another corner of the gallery.

"Well," Feliciano began. "It seems like Lovi has run off." I breathed a sigh of relief – maybe I can sneak away after Feliciano leaves. But then, he continued, "Do you want to see my painting?"

"Uh, sure," I said, and as soon as the word "uh" left my mouth, Feliciano already had his arm hooked around mine and was guiding me towards another painting.

"What do you think?"

"Wow, um, I'm not sure what to say." Which was the honest-to-God truth. Feliciano's painting was smaller than the so-called Lovi; not much bigger than an average window I think. But the style and content was on the other side of the spectrum. To my appreciation, Feliciano appears to prefer an impressionist style, quite comparable to Manet. But, that just makes all the more easier to understand what is going on and – "It's quite graphic."

"_Si_! That's what I was going for! Do you understand what it is?" Feliciano didn't seem the least bit put off by my awkwardness. God I can feel myself blushing, I'm not accustomed to this.

"Is it a couple…having sex in a gondola?" I wanted to cover my face, but I immediately felt the familiar embrace of Feliciano.

"_Si, si! Esatto_! Oh, you're blushing! Aww _sei cosi carino_! Does it make you feel awkward, because that's what I was trying to do?"

"Well, I wasn't expecting to see that at an urban landscape exhibit." My face still felt like it was on fire. How was this boy so collected around something so vulgar? Argh, I shouldn't be here.

"Ah, but when I was walking in Venice, I saw that," He gestured to his painting, though there was no need (I know what that is). "It was happening in the urban landscape of Venice so I painted it. It was a part of the city."

"That's an interesting way to put it." How strange. Although I know I strongly disagree with him, when Feliciano says it so simply and matter-of-factly I find myself accepting it. I still want to move away from the painting though. Feliciano could probably pick up on that too, because he began steering me away from his painting with only a giggle.

"I want to show you a painting of my friend, it's really nice, I think you'll like –"

"Oh, what about this one?" I stopped Feliciano's happy gait when I saw a peculiar landscape hanging across the wall of Feliciano's.

Feliciano unhooked my arm silently, and let me look at the painting seriously. This was smaller than Feliciano by about half the size, but the rectangle was taller vertically. It wasn't as modern and chaotic as Lovi's, or as graphic as Feliciano. It was naturalistic in a way, but it had painterly technique – a little bit like Van Gogh, but also like Klimt. It was hard to pin down to one particular artist or movement. I don't think any of these artists committed themselves to one particular style. But the simplicity of the painting was what struck me. It seemed to be a young blooming sunflower, sprouting from the crack of a (I would guess suburban?) sidewalk. The background was simple, but had a vague sunrise atmosphere – it was red, orange and blue. It was so blatantly hopeful that I had to smile at the painting. But I regretted it as soon as I did because I could feel the excited aura emanating from Feliciano until I felt, once again, his body tackling my chest.

"Oh you like it! I knew you would. Oh, _sono cosi contento_! This time you have to meet the artist! Come on, let's go!" He yanked my arm and this time didn't even bother to hook it with his own.

He dragged me to the corner where Lovi was standing earlier. There was still the same group of people mingling there: all of them sort of…artsy looking. There was one tan, messy haired brunette already facing us, offering a (frankly silly) grin. He was wearing a simple white t-shirt, covered in paint of course because it seems none of these people own a clean wardrobe, what-should-have-been green cargo shorts, and brown, leather sandals. I can feel his free-spiritedness already and it makes my cringe a bit.

"Toni, Toni, this is Arthur! Isn't he cute? He hasn't seen your work yet, but I've showed him Lovi's and he like it! I need to tell him, where is he?" Feliciano rambled excitedly, but Toni just smiled, probably accustomed to Feliciano's rapid-fire blathering.

"Oh, really Feli? That's nice. I think Lovi went to the refreshments table if you want to join him." As soon as Toni finished, Feliciano kissed me on my cheek (I was too distracted to dodge him unfortunately) and bolted from my side and around a corner to the (presumably) refreshments table. Leaving me alone with strangers. I've known Feliciano for not more than fifteen minutes and this already seems quite customary for him. Excellent.

I look back at Toni and the awkwardness starts sinking in. I might feel comforted if Toni was fidgeting or blushing like I was, but to my avail, he was standing and staring, quite confidently, into my eyes. And he didn't seem very self-conscious about making this gauche eye-contact. He didn't even seem bothered by the fact I wasn't saying anything. He just kept staring…until –

"You seem familiar. Have I seen you before?" He asked out of the blue, still keeping his relaxed grin.

"Um," I stumbled. "I think not." I didn't know what to add to that so I blushed even more, and looked away. My hands began searching for some pocket to hide in or some button to fiddle with. God I hate this. I hate parties. I hate being with people. I just shouldn't be here. Oh, Shakespeare come save me.

"Oh hey Toni, have you seen Feli? He said he was going to meet me here, but I can't find him," a new voice said.

I turned around to meet his face, so thankful for a distraction from my awkward three moments with Toni. I didn't take much of him before I heard an audible gasp (which I'm ninety-percent sure was not me). He seemed to recover by the time I looked at him again, because I was greeted by another (because all of these artists are so damn happy) mega-watt smile; though I must admit, this one trumps the rest. Actually, every part of him was sort of…smiley. His dark blonde hair, his sun-kissed skin, and his wide and very, very blue eyes. If I had only seen his eyes, I would have known he was smiling: they seemed so pure and innocent and hopeful – oh!

"You painted the sunflower painting, right?" I said matter of fact. Finally able to control the color of my face, and maintain my even, deadpanned as usual, tone of voice.

But I guess I'm not the only one with blushing problems, because he seemed genuinely shocked, and was not as quick this time to hide it. "Oh, how did you know?" He shoved his hands into the pockets of – oh my God I just noticed – overalls. He's wearing paint-covered overalls. There's a plain white t-shirt underneath (thankfully), and he's wearing closed-toe shoes (converse), but I'm still a little shocked by the overalls. Where the devil did he walk out from? Kansas? A farm?

He was waiting for me to respond, so I composed myself (rather believably it seems) and said plainly, "You just look like it."

That answer seemed to please him well enough, because he flashed his white teeth again and replied, "Huh, I've never heard that before."

And silence. Great. Now I'm stuck in a silent triangle. Alfred staring at me waiting or me to talk, me staring at Alfred waiting for him to talk, and Toni complacently staring at both of us in the background. All was still until Toni let out a loud, "Oooooohhhh. Now I remember where I've seen you. _Si, es verdad_. Alfred isn't he –"

"Look, Toni! Is that Lovi downing the entire of bottle of wine? You'd better grab him before he drinks it all." With that Toni's face lit up, and he sped away, with surprising agility, to the refreshments table.

"The refreshments table isn't even in view, doesn't he know that?" I say absentmindedly as I watch Toni take off, very jealous that I can't join him in an escape.

"Haha! Well, although he ain't dumb, Toni still ain't the brightest bulb in the room ya' know?" Ah, and there it is. His profoundly mid-western roots showing through in that absolutely horrific accent.

"I don't think I would know," I say evenly. I give him a glare, hoping, pleading that he'll walk away so I can escape. Francis will give me hell for this later, but frankly, at this point I really do not give a bloody damn about what people think of me. I just want to return to my room, reread every tragedy Shakespeare has ever bestowed to us, and enjoy my splendid isolation. But this idiot: he just keeps standing there, staring. It looks like he's waiting.

I stand a few more moments in his stoic trance-like presence, before I finally speak up, "Um, I think I'm going to make a phone call outside. It was nice to meet you…?"

"Alfred! Alfred Jones" He grabbed my hand and gave it a firm shake.

"Alfred," I forced a smile. "I'm Arthur Kirkland, it was nice meeting you. Well, I'll be on my way –" I attempted to remove my hand from his grip, but he didn't let go. I looked up at his (still-staring) eyes and said a little agitated, "Um, can you please let go of my –"

"Let me paint you!" He said excitedly, still holding my hand.

I stood there for a moment, sort of dazed by the situation. I was aware and vaguely embarrassed by the group of people walking by, but I was too stunned to blush or be my usual flustered self. I felt Alfred squeeze my palm a bit and I finally blinked. "Um, what?"

"I've been watching you for the past few weeks and – oh that sounds creepy doesn't it. Well, it's just er –" He looked away for a brief second then returned his gaze back to me with a greater passion. The blue of his eyes seemed to be…glowing. "Ever since I saw your face, I just – I need to paint you. Please let me!"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

_The Card Players_, Paul Cezanne. 1894-1895. Oil on canvas.

* * *

Two guys smoking, each staring mutely at their cards. Sizing each other up, I imagine. I wonder if that's what is going to happen today?

I sigh audibly and flip over the card Alfred gave me. On the back was his (oh-so-terrible) scrawl that read:

Anytime tomorrow apt. #17 on the 4th floor.

Bring lots of clothes and books!

Alfred :)

God, why did he write this in bloody code? Couldn't he write like a regular person instead of this stagnant text-like message? And then he added a smiley face. Not even a good one really. I mean, I had higher expectations for an artist.

I turned over my arm to glance at my watch. It's one in the afternoon. This is a good time, right? I press the buzzer for a solid second and wait for a response.

One second, five seconds, ten seconds, twenty seconds – okay maybe I should just leave –

"Um…hello?" A sleepy voice echoed through the speaker. God dammit, he was sleeping.

"Yeah, hello Alfred. It's Arthur. You said to stop by sometime today," I heard a distinct "shit" in the background and a lot of crashing, but I ignored it. "If it's not a good time I can just come by next week –"

"NO, no! I'm up! I'm up haha. I was just napping. It's that darn TV, you know? You start watching baseball, and then you sit through football and basketball and soon enough you're dozing off haha! You know what I mean?" And he kept laughing into the mic.

"Not really," I said blatantly. I waited for few moments, but it seemed like Alfred wasn't going to realize he had to buzz me in, so I continued, "Are you going to let me in or shall I freeze outside?"

"Huh? Oh, shit! I'm sorry! Here let me buzz you in," His voice stopped with the loud buzz, and I pushed through the gate into the entryway.

I wiped my feet on the welcome mat and opened the second door that led to the stairwell. I walked four flights of stairs (because Alfred just had to live on the top bloody floor), lugging my bag of books on one arm and my bag of clothes on the other. This off-balance of weight was awkward, and by the third floor I was contemplating just dumping the bags and walking home. Really, why was I doing this again? There was nothing in it for me, was there? But then I think of Alfred's bright blue eyes and I remember I was powerless against them. God damnit, I'm in front of his door. I guess there really is no turning back now. I'm not sure what I'll find on the inside of this door, but it really can't be any worse than his overalls, so I clench my fist and knock once on the white door.

I didn't even have time to blink before the door was swung open with a powerful gust of air, tugging my blonde hair slightly away from it's combed part. And there he was. Alfred stood tall and sunny and so very American. He wasn't wearing overalls, but it was clear he had woken up in what he was sleeping in: another white t-shirt (with distinctly different paint splatters) and a pair of white cargo paints (still covered in paint, of course). His dark blonde hair was a hopeless mess, but still painfully attractive. The way it clung to his forehead in parts and stuck up in hideous cowlicks in others, it just made me want to slide my hand over his hand comb that damn…Wait, what did I say? Attractive?

"Hey, you look the same!" Alfred said in his not-really-deep, but still rather powerful voice. It was sort of like hearing a guitar talk.

"Was I supposed to look different?" I ask deadpanned, attempting to maintain my expressionless face. But the strangeness of the situation was pricking my nerves a bit, and I can feel my eyes sharpening a bit in their gaze.

"Well, I don't know. I sort of expected you to look different in the morning I guess," His voice faltered a bit towards the end as he looked at my slightly-ticked-off face. He hasn't even done anything wrong yet, I'm not sure why I'm already prickly.

Come on Arthur, hold back the sass a bit. "We're not all genetically blessed with the I-just-got-out-of-bed-but-I-look-great look, you know." Was that sassy? I sort of mixed in a compliment, so I'm not sure how that sounded. It seemed Alfred was just as confused about what I said, so I just trudged through the doorway, passing Alfred to his living room.

"Well, um, you can just leave your bags here for a moment," He grabbed the handles from my hands, and I saw that his were slightly stained at the fingertips. From paint no doubt. God, has this man ever been clean? "We shouldn't need the props for a while," he continued, as he placed the bags on the long, red coffee table. "If it's okay with you, I'd sort of like to just study you for a while." He turned around to face me as he said the last part, I guess to see my reaction.

My eyes widened, then narrowed in confusion, I knit my eyebrows together. "What do you mean by study?"

He smiled, but didn't seem to be bashful about what he had just said, and walked over to where I was standing near the beat-up loveseat. "I just want to observe you. Like the way your face moves, and the different expressions you make. I'll also be trying different types of light on you, to see which one I prefer."

He was standing in front of me now, and I was confronted again with the overwhelming presence of an American. He also needs to learn personal boundaries, but that seems like a futile point to mull over as I'm here for, as he put it, "observation." Excellent.

I took a step back, which was hopefully not too obvious, and said, "So where do you want me to sit, or stand or whatever?"

"Uuuum. Let's see. How about…" He walked away from me into an open doorway for a moment, then came out holding a tall stool. He walked the length of his long horizontal window in the back of his living room, before settling on a place in the furthest right corner of the room. I let him step back from the stool, stare at it, adjust it, and stare at it again. Until finally, he smiled and waved me over saying, "Here. Sit here for me. I'm going to get another stool. Be right back."

We crossed paths as I sauntered to the wooden stool. I stared out the window, watching the New Yorkers flood the streets at a green cross-walk, and the palette of cars stopped at the gate of the intersection. I sigh again, but I don't know why this time, and sit down on the stool. My eyes squint a bit; it may be fall in New York, but the early afternoon sun on a clear day is still blinding. As my eyes adjust to the light, I (sort of) see Alfred carrying another stool and setting it down, directly in front of me. Then he managed to compact his tall (probably over six feet) frame into a crouch-like position, with his legs tucked behind one of the wooden bars of the stool. He crossed his left arm over his chest and rested his right elbow into the crook of his arm; he balanced his chin on his right hand and began what he said was going to be his "observation" of me.

I wasn't sure what to do so I looked away to the window, but as soon as I flickered my eyes away from Alfred's I heard him say seriously, "Keep looking at me." I wish he didn't say something like that so blatantly. Somehow the simplicity of it just made it more embarrassing and I could feel my face heat up and my eyebrows lower protectively over my eyes. He apparently noticed my discomfort, because he talked again and said, "You don't like looking people in the eyes, do you?"

"Um, not really I suppose," I began, trying to fight off the impulse to look away.

"Yesterday you didn't seem to have a problem glaring at me though," He said absentmindedly.

"Oh well," My eyes widened a bit and my palms were starting to feel damp. "I guess something about this situation makes me uncomfortable. It feels sort of…"

"Vulnerable," He smiled a bit. "Yeah, I hear that a lot actually." I don't know why, but that last sentence ticked me off a bit, and I narrowed my eyes instinctively. Alfred seemed intrigued by this because he lifted his head off of his hand and asked, "Wait, what happened? Your eyes changed."

"I'm not sure. Something about what you said irritated me."

"Hmm, really? It's like they got greener somehow." He leaned in slightly, and I fought off the urge to lean back. "Your eyes are really interestin' actually. They're green, but it's like a warm green. They start of gold and warm in the center, and as it moves out, it's like the green cools off, and gets darker – like a Christmas tree!" I didn't say anything, and he reached out his finger tip to hover just below my left eye. "And the shape is pretty too," He began tracing the outline of eye. "It's wide and almond, and sort of cat-like. And your eyelashes sort of feather out at the ends. Oh, and your eyelashes are dark too! Are they black?" And he leaned his full face into my personal bubble, long enough for me to feel one warm breath exhale over my nose. "I don't think they're black, but still, surprisingly dark for a blondie haha."

I didn't make any comment. My arms were paralyzed at my thighs and my eyes were wide and wary. I'm not accustomed to such blatant honesty: especially when it regards my face. No one ever traced my face like that. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. This is so incredible petrifying.

Maybe Alfred noticed the whiteness at the tops of my knuckles, because he leaned a bit further back on the stool than he was previously and let me breath into my personal space. He crossed both arms across his chest and said, "Do you mind turning your face to the right?"

I did as he said and turned towards the door, but as soon as I saw the doorknob I heard him raise his voice a bit to correct what he said.

"Wait, wait! Not that far so fast. Just, look at me again," I turned my head to face him and look into his blue – gosh that seems so general after hearing him describe my eyes. Okay, I turned into his sort-of-sparkly, clear, blue sky eyes (the kind of sky you see at noon in the middle of summer), and waited for instructions. "Now, turn slightly to the right. Just a fraction – stop!" I stopped, and I from this position I could still see Alfred moving his finger in the air. "You have a pretty nose," he began vaguely. "I like the way the bridge meets your forehead. It makes a nice angle. And the way it ends over your mouth. It's sort of neat nose, isn't it?"

"What the bloody hell does that even mean?" I yelled. Alfred widened his eyes but didn't appear upset at my outburst. I'm not sure if that make me feel better or worse, but honestly what did he expect? Who in the devil's name says things like that? And how am I supposed to respond to that? But the longer that Alfred stays quiet, the guiltier I feel about lashing out at him, so I amend, saying, "I'm sorry. I just – I'm not really accustomed to hearing people talk about the way I look." My voice faded slightly at the end, so I snatch a glance at Alfred to see what he's thinking.

"Yeah, I can sort of tell," I said matter-of-factly. He could probably tell I was about to ask him what that meant, so he continued, "Well, the way you move your face and talk, you don't do it really thinking of how it looks. Your expressions are sort of raw in that way, which I like. But it made me figure you didn't ever get any talk about how you look."

Without thinking, I reach up to my face and over half of it with my hand. Is he right? Does my face look strange then when I talk? Maybe I should start rehearsing in the mirror…

"It's okay," Alfred said smiling, pulling my hand away from my face. "I said I like it. You don't need to hide your face." I let him hold my wrist for a few seconds longer, before snatching it away forcefully, and laying it back down on my thigh. If that bothered him, he didn't show it, and Alfred continued smiling with a twinkle in his eye.

I began narrowing my eyes, but then I felt a confused fog settle over my mind, and my eyelids dropped a bit.

"What is it?" Alfred asked, curiosity pushing him forward into my space again.

"I guess," I started, keeping my gaze intensely focused on my jeans. "I guess, I'm just a bit confused as to why you want to paint me."

I looked up at Alfred, expecting him to look – I don't know – resigned, annoyed, but instead, I saw his face tilted upwards towards the ceiling. "That's an interesting question. I don't know if I can explain it. It's something that just happens to an artist." I lowered his face back to my level and smiled animatedly. "It's like, I see something, and all of a sudden, I feel this intense passion for it. It's not just beautiful, it's fascinating to me. And I guess, I want to draw it or paint it to understand it." I nodded my head in understanding (though this was still something foreign to me) and let him continue. But instead of talking again right way, for the first time since I've entered his apartment, Alfred blushes a bit and looks away. His eyes flicker back to me and he begins again, "See, I've actually been wanting to paint you for a long time now. Ever since the first time I saw you at the MET a few weeks ago." Something clicked in my head and everything started to make sense. "I saw you walking around the gallery and I was struck by your expression. It was so hard and intense. And when your eyes looked at a person, it was like they flashed: the emotion just lights up like a green fire. It was so…cool!"

Whatever moment of reverie I was brought into, the last word Alfred emphasized pulled me back to reality and I consciously narrowed my eyes in – I'm not sure – doubt? Scorn?

"I watched you walk around the MET that day, and memorized the way you walked purposefully, without lookin' at anything that didn't interest you. I found it interesting they way you looked around so seriously." He looked to the side and smiled, as if remembering that day. Then his cheeks tinged red again and his eyes shifted from me to away a few times; he seemed to be contemplating telling me something. I think he was honestly about to not tell me, so I decided to intervene.

"For Christ's sake finish the story. You can't just turn off the honesty when you want to."

Alfred was a bit taken aback to hear me speak up to him, but it made him make up is mind (thankfully) and he grinned sort of bashfully this time. "Well, after that day, I sketched you all night. Replaying my memory of you over and over. I went back to the MET the next day, in case, by some miracle, you decided to go back. But I didn't see you there. I didn't see you on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday. But the next Saturday, you were there again! I brought my sketchbook that time, so I was able to sketch you from around the corner." He laughed a nervous laughter, obviously uncomfortable telling me he was (basically) stalking me. "It was sort of difficult to get a good view of your face though. It felt like it would be too obvious to completely face you, so as you'd imagine, the sketches weren't really any good. But every Saturday I saw you I needed to draw you, and I wanted so badly to paint you! I found out that Francis was your suitemate, so I tried to get him to invite you to one of our exhibits, so I'd get a chance to look at you closely. But well, obviously it took a while for you to accept haha."

I know Alfred hadn't meant to be funny, but something about his story, his tale of his utterly pure motives was hilarious, if also endearing to me. I raised my hand to cover my mouth, and I laughed hard into my palm. Tears pricked the edges of my eyes, but I couldn't stop laughing. Alfred went to such lengths…for me?! It just didn't seem possible for anyone to do that for another, especially for me? I mean, he's basically confessing to thinking I'm beautiful, which is already such a ridiculous statement in of itself. "Oh, Alfred, Alfred," I managed to say between laughs. "You're such an idiot. I'm not worth your sketches, but to paint me! That's just absurd!"

Between my strong blinks and blurry eyes, I saw Alfred's expression change from surprised (when I started to laugh), to confused (when I started talking), to determined as my laughter died down. When I finally had my breathing under control, Alfred grabbed both of my hands and held them in a firm grip. He looked straight at me with a resolute stare and said earnestly, "Arthur, I'm going to paint you. And if you see it when it's done and still don't believe you're beautiful, I'll renounce my title as Best Artist in New York."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

_Pygmalion and Galatea_, Jean-Léon Gérôme. Ca. 1890. Oil on canvas.

* * *

Marble fading to skin. Her back is twisted, one arm grasping his hand, the other hooked around his neck. And he holds on to her with dear life. Why did this painting suddenly come to mind?

I blink away my daydream and look at Alfred. He's still holding my hands, which, although extremely awkward for me, doesn't seem to faze him. His eyes are still desperately searching my face, but he stays silent. I think he's waiting for me to say something, so I do.

"Idiot," I begin, turning my gaze to the window. "There's no such title." I felt the familiar blush creep up my cheeks, but I kept my eyes focused outside so he couldn't, I don't know, "observe me" anymore than he wanted to. My eyes stayed pinned to the window until the silence was shattered by the booming sound of what is apparently Alfred's laugh. At that my head whipped around to look at him, no doubt my expression frightened by the noise. The first thing I noticed was that he was still holding my hands, and that irked me. The next, that he was still grinning and staring right at me; he just wouldn't look away. But his laugh didn't last long, and when it died, Alfred let go of my hands (finally), and stood up.

"Of course there is! I said I am, so I am, and that's that." He extended his arms out and I guess tried to convince me by addition of hand gestures. I wish Alfred would understand that body language should be left to the Europeans; he just looks like an excited puppy that doesn't know how to keep still.

"Isn't that arrogant?" I raise an eyebrow and cross my free hands across my chest. Strange, they feel a bit cold now.

Alfred slapped his hands to his sides ungracefully and said (loudly as usual), "Well, duh! You can't be the best if you don't believe you are first!"

"That doesn't sound like a very reasonable statement –"

"So what sort of clothes did you bring?" Alfred interrupted; apparently bored with the direction the conversation was going.

I frowned at him so he would know I was annoyed, but sighed and replied, "I wasn't sure what to bring, so I brought some sweaters, t-shirts, corduroy pants, and my oxfords." I gestured to my canvas bag on the coffee table, but I saw Alfred was already digging through it, laying each individual article of clothing on the couch. For someone so boisterous, he could be surprisingly meticulous. After all of my clothing was laid out, Alfred spent a good two minutes holding up articles of clothing in the air, flicking his eyes to me, holding the clothing near me, then setting it down again.

I began zoning out after the first thirty seconds, or I guess you could say I was blatantly staring at Alfred without realizing it. It sort of amuses me how serious he can be. The way his eyebrows are knit together and his eyes are squinting…wait, does he need glasses? Is that why he was so close to me earlier?

"Um, Alfred?" I pipe up, observing how his eyes squint a bit more when they glance to me. "Do you perchance need your glasses?"

"W-what?" His eyes widened and he began laughing nervously and increasingly loud (too loud, calm down Alfred). "I don't wear glasses!" He protested and pointed to himself with a paint-stained finger.

I raised a dubious eyebrow at him. "Oh, really?" What is he embarrassed about? Many people wear glasses.

"Yeah!" He yelled (really Alfred, there is no need – I'm in the same room as you), having found a piece of his confidence again. His face was a bit red, and his blue eyes were wide-open and anxious.

Note to self: Alfred is a terrible liar/actor. He looks like a deer caught in headlights. I don't know if I should find that more endearing or pathetic. Wait, no. It's pathetic. Yes, that's it.

Ah, well. I guess I won't bug him about it.

"Okay, then." I said dismissively, turning my gaze away. From the corner of my I sensed with satisfaction Alfred's shocked face; I knew ignoring an issue he blew out of proportion would get to him. God, he's so childish. This is a tactic parents use with their children.

It took less than ten seconds before I heard a loud, resigned sigh echo through the apartment, followed by, "Fine. You're right, I do wear glasses. Well, sometimes I wear glasses. It's not like I need them all the time or anything."

"Alfred, you don't have to hide the fact you wear glasses. It's not a big deal." I assure him, trying my best to tap into my more compassionate voice, but hearing instead a slightly less deadpanned version of my usual tone.

He crashed onto the couch (on top of all of my clothing, I might add), laid down and threw an arm over his eyes. "Yes, it is," he lamented with another drawn-out sigh.

"What, were you bullied or something?" I say half-jokingly, certainly not expecting to hear a groan-sigh combination resonate from the couch. I hear him turn over, presumably into the cushions, but he doesn't say anything else. "So," I begin, as I walk over to the rim of the couch to see a tall, all-American man in a fetal position, hugging the back cushions. "You were made fun of for your glasses?"

He nodded into the couch, but didn't turn his head to face me.

Argh, what am I supposed to say? I don't know how to comfort people. I'm not the sensitive one. "Well," I start clumsily. "Why didn't you switch to contacts?" Is that a reasonable thing to say?

I guess not, because Alfred responds by ripping the cushion from its spot then fully immersing his face in it. It's muffled, but I manage to catch, "because I'm scared to put them in my eyes." Afterwards he begins a sort of low rumble, but his face is so buried, I can't distinguish any coherent words. Is he crying? God, no! Did I make him cry? "God, Alfred, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I just don't know what to say in situations like this. I'm sorry, maybe I should just go –"

I stop talking when Alfred released his hold of the cushion slightly, and enough so that I could make out the long mumble, "No, no, no, no, noooooo. This isn't how it was supposed to go."

"Um, this isn't how what was supposed to go?"

He (finally) lifted the cushion from his face to look at me in the eyes. "Our d-meeting!" He said passionately, gazing at me seriously with crystal-clear, blue eyes. Wow, for a moment I forgot how blue his eyes were.

"Oh, what was supposed to happen?" I replied, slightly dazed.

He sat up straighter, bringing himself closer to me, and I in turn, back up and amble towards the small arm chair across from him. I don't care if he can't see; I just don't feel comfortable with him at such close proximity.

Alfred raised his hand in the air in frustration and continued, "You were supposed to think I'm cool! Aaaah, I had this all planned out. I was going to draw you and show you some of my amazing work and stuff. But now, you think I'm totally uncool." He dropped his face into his hands.

"Alfred, even if everything had gone according to your plan I wouldn't think you're cool." I say without thinking. Only after the words left my mouth, and I witnessed Alfred's distraught face did I realize how absolutely harsh I sounded. Bloody hell Arthur. Fix this, fix this! "Not that you have to be cool though! I mean, being cool is overrated anyway. Hell, I don't like most of the "cool" people I know – naming no French Canadians." I mumble the last part to myself.

"But you're cool," he protested, looking more like a little boy than ever. Why in God's name does he think I'm cool?

"Me?" I snort mockingly. "Trust me, Alfred, I was not cool in school, nor am I cool now. You were probably more popular in high school than I ever was."

"I doubt that," he replied despairingly. "Try being the only one on the baseball team that needs glasses. I tried pitching without them once, and after walking three batters – THREE – I was hit in the eye by the next batter. I had a black eye for weeks! Try asking someone to prom with a black eye!"

I slap my hand to my forehead. This is the extent of Alfred's troubles? "Alfred, some people have bigger problems than black eyes and prom." Like me, for instance. High school was an absolute nightmare. Just thinking about it –

"What were you like in high school?" Alfred asked randomly, a curious glint in his eyes. Another note to self: Alfred has a short attention span. Doesn't really surprise me.

"I don't know, like I am now, I suppose." There, that's a vague summary of myself.

"Did you play any sports?"

"Soccer," I say automatically, then mentally kick myself (how ironic) for saying anything at all. Now he's going to ask –

"Oh really? What position did you play?"

Okay, not the question I expected. "I played forward."

"Wait, that's not a position in football." Alfred countered, drawing his eyebrows together.

I hold my tongue; I need to remember I'm dealing with an American here. He doesn't know better, so I have to explain it to him. "I mean English football – you know, soccer."

"Oh, okay!" Alfred smiles in acknowledgement; happy he figured it all out. I relax slightly, but then he continues, "But I still don't know much about soccer, so what's forward?" Oh, Alfred. Stupid Alfred.

"It's an offensive position. I try to score the goals," I tell him plainly: successfully avoiding sounding sassy. I think.

"That makes sense," he says with a laugh, why is he laughing?

"What's funny about that?" My eyes harden instinctively.

"It just suits your personality," Alfred said with another laugh. "Did you like playing?"

Dammit, I didn't prepare my face in time. I guess I'll have to be honest. "Not really…" Nice Arthur, that'll just make him more curious.

In a flash, Alfred was no longer smiling and looked suspicious. "Why not?"

"Well, I ended up quitting the team half-way through the season sophomore year. So I don't really miss it." Don't ask questions Alfred, don't ask questions –

"Why'd you quit?" He asked with an even look, no trace of his silliness lingering in his expression. This serious Alfred is starting to scare me.

"Oh, you know, I just got sick of it. And I ended up getting pretty busy with A.P classes and everything, so I couldn't balance my grades and the team." I lied smoothly, deviating my gaze to the couch and away from Alfred's pleading, righteous eyes. I'm a pretty good liar I think, but just in case, I decide to distract him and change the subject. "So, do you have an outfit picked out for me? I don't know what method you were using before, but since you wrinkled a good half of my sweaters, I suppose we can use process of elimination…" I scratch the back of my neck and keep my eyes looking away; I hope Alfred follows my lead.

I don't check to see if he detects my lie, but I exhale audibly when I hear Alfred respond with, "Well, fortunately I put all of the ones I liked most on the table. So let me just get my glasses and we can choose something." I wait until his footsteps fade to the other side of the apartment, where I'm assuming his bedroom is, before I allow myself to turn around.

Well, that was close. I almost had a heart to heart with a person I just met. I suppose he had a type of heart to heart with me. But since it's Alfred it ended up being a childish problem, so I don't know if it's the same thing. Still, he's getting his glasses, so I guess that means he trusts me? I actually feel sort of touched.

"Okay, are you ready to see how amazing I look?" Alfred shouts to me in a falsely-deep, superhero voice. Well, nice to know his confidence has returned.

He didn't wait for me to respond before bellowing out, "Close your eyes!" Yet another example of how Alfred is an excellently disguised seven-year-old.

"Fine," I mutter and do as I was told.

"What was that?" Alfred yells even louder.

"I said fine!" I raise my voice considerably, but not to Alfred-level.

He doesn't shout back to me, so I sit in the dark waiting for him to make his grand entrance. Finally, I hear his footsteps tap from his room, across the hall and into the living room. I fidget slightly when I know he's sitting, or kneeling, in front of me, and curl my fingers into my palms nervously. Why is he taking so long? My hands are starting to sweat.

"Hello, is anyone –"

"Open your eyes!" He interrupted me excitedly, and I complied on cue.

The glasses in question were simple, rectangular, reading glasses. They were transparent enough so that the depth of Alfred's blue eyes were not hidden, but actually accentuated by the reflection of the glass. It's as if a thousand stars were lit up in a clear blue sky. If Alfred thinks that he was ever made fun of, then he must be dumber than he sounds.

"Ah, so there they are. They look nice." I say calmly, my eyes scanning his full face that is, once again, way too close. And there's no poor-vision excuse this time, so why does he insist on invading my personal bubble?

"That's it?" Alfred asks, his smile faltering a bit. Dammit, his confidence is wavering again.

I fluster a bit and hastily utter a response, "What do you want me to say Alfred? You were handsome before, and you're handsome now. I doubt anyone ever seriously made fun of you. It was probably just teasing."

His smile broadens, and his eyes light up with something, but I don't know what it is. And then he replies, "You think I'm handsome?"

Damn! Did I say that? "No," I protest quickly, then catch myself and clarify evenly, "Society thinks you're handsome. I'm just saying what you already know."

He keeps his smile, which pisses me off, and his eyes look amused, which pisses me off even more. "But you agree?"

Um…I open my mouth to retort with something rude, but I can't seem to find a lie anywhere. Bloody hell. "Are we going to do this or not? Because I have poetry I should be writing." Excellent move Arthur.

Fortunately, Alfred picked up on my distress and with a pat on my knee (what?), he laughed and walked over to the coffee table. "Okay, let's get to it then! Well, since you have pink undertones I was thinking we could stick to the jewel-toned colors you have here. I really like your emerald sweater – that was the one I first saw you with – but I think this deep purple would be nice too –"

"What do you mean by pink undertones?" I ask dumbly.

"Oh, well, your skin has pink undertones, so I was just tryin' to choose a color to compliment it best." He said simply, as if this is common information. Or maybe it is? Did Francis tell me about this once?

"Wait," I begin, walking over to the table. "How can you tell what undertones people have?" I cross my arms and act like I'm vaguely interested in the conversation.

"It's not that hard. I saw you were wearing a silver watch, and noticed it looked nice on you. And I compared it to the gold ring on your finger, and understood that silver looked better on you than gold."

I looked at my watch, and my ring and observed them silently. I guess he had a point. "Well, Francis got me the watch so I guess he would know about this sort of thing." I said absentmindedly, and noticed how Alfred stiffened slightly at what I said. I don't know why, but I found myself adding, "It was a present from all of my suitemates for my birthday, but since Francis is the only one with taste, they insisted he pick it out." Somehow as I watched Alfred relax, I found myself feeling slightly better too. Strange.

"Also," he continued, gently picking up my right, un-watched wrist and turning it over. "Another way to tell is by seeing if the veins in your arm appear blue, yellowish or olive-ish, or greenish. Yours are blue, so you're cool toned."

I nod, trying not to notice how softly he was holding my wrist, and, more importantly, how he hadn't let go of it. Focus on something else Arthur. "So," I begin, slowly retrieving my arm from his grasp. "What are you?"

"I'm neutral," Alfred said simply, ignoring my previous action. He detects that I'm waiting for him to go on, so he explains, "I look good in both gold and silver jewelry," he states, comparing his arm to my ring and my watch. "And my veins are greenish and blue." He extended his wrist for me to see.

"Well, that makes sense." I say offhandedly.

"What does?" He asked as he pulled his wrist back to his side.

"Just that, you would be the type that looks good in everything."

"Why would you say that?" He asks innocently. How can he be so unaware of it? How can he be so unaware of how…perfect he is? Is this boyish naiveté legitimate?

I stare at him blankly and debate answering that with a respectable response. Please Arthur, no sass, just move on. "Never mind, it doesn't matter. So which sweater?" I wave my hand towards the selection to steer his gaze that way.

If he was disappointed by lack of reply he didn't express it, for which I am thankful. Another thing to note about Alfred: he's quite sensitive to others' feelings. That's… quite nice of him.

He bends down to pick up the dark, purple sweater and lifts it to press against my chest. "Purple. It compliments your eyes," He smiles a soft smile and looks down at me oddly. But I'm more preoccupied with the fact that his right palm is resting over my heart, and he might be able to feel my heart beating through the two sweaters.

* * *

"Aaaaarrrrrrtttttthhhhhhuuuuuurrrrrrrr," Alfred thundered through the apartment, though once again, there is NO NEED. "Are you almost done?"

"Almost. Just wait another moment for Christ's sake." I reply hastily, tripping over my lie. Actually, I've been done for about seven minutes now, adding up to a total of fifteen minutes I've been hiding in his bathroom. Alfred must think I have trouble dressing myself by now. But that's not the case, I assure you. I finished changing relatively quickly, too quickly perhaps, because by the end of it I looked at myself in the mirror and almost screamed. My face was flustered and shiny from nervous sweat, and my hair – my hair – was uncombed and in a messy disarray around my forehead and nape of my neck. Though I have no false pretenses about my lack of aesthetical beauty, I still have enough pride to not let Alfred paint me looking like this. So right now I'm fanning my face in with one hand, and combing my hair (by use of Alfred's comb – which he surprisingly owns) in the other.

Dear God, are my eyes always this green? They look positively venomous! No, no, no! And my eyebrows – bloody hell. Why have I never started plucking these things? They're like caterpillars sitting on my disgusting avocados for eyes.

I start rummaging through Alfred's cabinet. Tweezers, I need tweezers. Would Alfred have tweezers? Probably not. He owns a comb, a toothbrush and toothpaste: which is already more than I could have hoped for. But then my eyes detect the familiar glint of a razor sitting on the top shelf. Oh, I could use this, right?

"Arthur, are you okay in there?" Alfred knocks at the door, waits for less than two seconds, and swings open the door without my answer. He sees me leaning over the counter holding his razor near my eye, and I suddenly realize how strange this must seem. "What are you doing?" He asks confusedly.

"Um, I was going to shave," I say dumbly.

"You were going to shave your eye?" Alfred strides to my side and steals the razor from my grip.

"I was just…trying to get ready."

He turns to face me, arms akimbo, and analyzes me from head to toe. "You look great! Come on, let's go!" He grabs my hand and leads me out of the bathroom.

I only let him pull me out the door before snatching my hand away and hiding it in the pocket of my corduroys. But Alfred ignored my gesture – probably accustomed to it by now – and continued leading me to another room. A few steps down the hall and we walked into what I can only deduce is Alfred's bedroom and art studio combination. Which, as far as I can tell, might not have been the best arrangement, because the bedroom side of the space did not escape any of the mess accumulated by his studio side. In fact, it might be even messier? There are papers and pencils littering the sides of his bed, and colorful fingerprints decorating the top of his nightstand.

"So, you draw in bed?" I ask, already knowing he would say –

"Yeah." Alfred began scurrying around the sides of his bed picking up drawings after my statement. "It's just," he started, as he balanced a stack sketches at his side. "Sometimes I get an image stuck in my head, and I can't get to sleep until I draw it out. Ya' know?" He shuffled the papers as best he could and left them at his nightstand, before bending down to collect the pencils and pens.

I felt awkward just standing and watching him, so I start helping him clean up (why am I here again?). But it's uncomfortable being in a room where Alfred is quiet, so I try to add to the conversation, "I do the same thing." But I realize my mistake, and scramble to amend my statement, saying, "I don't draw…obviously. But sometimes I'll get a subject trapped in my head too, and I need to write about it before I can fall asleep." I keep my eyes heavy lidded and focused on the floor, because I don't want to tempt fate and see whatever peculiar twinkle is in Alfred's eye.

"Don't move," I hear Alfred command.

I halt mid-breath and ask stiffly, "Is there a spider near me?" My eyes dart around the floor nervously.

"No," he says in full seriousness. "I'm going to sketch you, so stay still." And I hear him flipping through a sketchbook.

"What?" I protest angrily, whilst maintaining my pose. "Why do you want to sketch me now?"

He exhales frustrated (he's frustrated?) and graces me with a response, "I just like the way you look right now. It's hard to explain, but it's like all of a sudden, I'll see something and I just…have to draw it."

I give a faint "ah" and pretend I understand, or would like to understand and return to conserving the position Alfred found so inspiring. Argh. I feel my face contrive slightly from the discomfort of the stance.

"Relax your face Arthur," Alfred orders.

I do as I'm told, and amazingly, I manage to keep my mouth shut too. Still, it's quite boring staring at the same spot on the floor, in a stiff kneeling position, trying to look blissfully unaware of the pain in my knees. I hope this doesn't take too long. Does sketching normally take a long time? I don't even know.

"So," Alfred begins, thankfully overpowering my stifled breathing. "Why did you quit soccer?"

I don't answer, and ignore him. I'm not supposed to talk anyway, right?

"Come on, you can tell me…" Alfred whines, and I can just hear the pleading smile in his voice.

Well nice try Alfred, I'm not going to tell you. Someone like you wouldn't understand anyway. So just shut your mouth and finish the drawing.

"I told you about my glasses. You should open up to me too." His voice drawls in a sad lament.

I still don't say anything, and listen with pleasure to the sound of Alfred's resigned sigh. But then I hear his voice again.

"Well I guess I'll just have to tell you something else about me then," he started dramatically. "I went to Europe last spring, for my study abroad. It was amazing!"

How very enlightening, Alfred. Please tell me more, I thought sarcastically; rolling my eyes at the same time.

"I was living in Vienna for the most part, though I did do some travelin' during the semester, in Italy and stuff. But I loved Vienna. It was so cool! I don't know how you feel about Klimt, but his paintings are totally awesome! I visited the museum almost everyday…"

I tried to imagine Alfred gallivanting in historic Vienna, but couldn't quite photoshop them together in my mind.

"And one day, on my way to the Belvedere, I met this girl..." Alfred's voice faded off a bit, and I waited for him to continue with something – anything – because I can't breathe until he finishes his statement. "Okay! You can move now!' He shouted, and I nearly fell to the ground.

"For God's sake Alfred, what is with you and cutting off your stories?" I turn towards him to counter his happy-go-lucky face with my frown.

But he ignores my outburst and flips to a new page. "So why don't you sit down on my bed?" He smiles as if that's a reasonable question.

I can't help but redden with annoyance and ask (more like yell),"What the bloody hell does that mean?"

He faces me with a pathetic show of a wounded expression and replies, "Aww Arthur, I just wanted to draw you on the bed. That's not weird is it?"

I can't even tell if he's playing dumb or is actually an idiot. But I let it slide with soft swears under my breath, and walk over to Alfred's unmade, queen-sized bed. I analyzed his messy gray and ivory covers and halt my climb to the bed. I glance to Alfred, who is flicking his pencil against the sketchbook and looking energetically around the room. Without asking him, I began to make the covers of the bed, because God dammit, it's repulsive. I am not laying in that nest for an indefinite amount of time unless it's decently neat.

I raise the duvet into the air and spread it across the mattress, then proceed lean over the bed and smooth out the blanket. But as my head is lifted up, and my eyes tilted down coolly, my hand is paused mid-swipe by the familiar call:

"Don't move."

I can't help but release an annoyed groan before dignifying that decree with a response. "What now, Alfred? I'm not even looking at you!"

"What did I tell you before Arthur? I draw what I like." He pretends to chastise me, and I know, even without confirming the twinkle in his eyes, that he's enjoying this. "Now relax your face to how it was before."

I can't even respond with a faux "yes, master," because I'm worried that someone like Alfred will take it seriously and walk on air for the rest of the afternoon. Instead, I release another heavy breath and comply. And it's quiet again.

"So, are you not going to finish your story?" I finally ask.

"Why should I? You don't finish yours," he teases, and I flick my eyes up to glare at him through my lashes.

"That's because I don't even know you," I begin harshly. Then I glance away and add in a soft murmur, "Besides, someone like you wouldn't understand anyway…"

"Why do you say that?" I hear him stop moving the pencil, and I can only imagine he's staring me down.

Oh, Alfred. "Just because," I sigh, wishing against all of the odds, that he will drop the subject.

He taps the pencil a few times to the paper then says pensively, "Well, actually I've known you for about a month now, so I'd say that's a pretty long time."

"That's not a reciprocal relationship, Alfred. That's you stalking me and pretending you know everything about me. You were probably convincing yourself of an idealized version of the person you wanted me to be."

I thought my little speech would shut him up, but instead I was startled (again) by the familiar boom of Alfred's laugh. "No, I knew who you were as soon as I saw your face." Driven by curiosity, I met his eyes and listened to him continue, "Have you ever had a moment where you see someone, and you just feel like you already know them, and you know you could fa –" His eyes flicked away for a second as he gathered his thoughts; but he quickly looked back and finished, "Well, have you ever felt that way?"

"No," I deadpanned. "I'm a realist, Alfred, and you're a romantic. That's a fundamental difference between us that is becoming more and more apparent as this day goes on." I maintained a level stare with him, and managed to control a serious expression.

But regardless of how intimidating I hoped I looked, Alfred fought a smile as he said, "Mm, are you sure about that Arthur? You may be a cynic, but I don't think you're a realist."

"Well, I definitely never had a moment like that," I clarified with a raised voice.

Alfred's small smile broadened and he curled his fingers to his chin. "But you knew I was the artist that painted the sunflower painting…" His eyes sparkled behind his glasses and he continued, "I think that's pretty romantic."

I don't know at which point it began, but by the time Alfred stopped talking I was well aware that my entire face was a brilliant red; I don't need a mirror, I can just sense it. At the same time, my throat closed, and I couldn't find my voice anywhere. Though I don't even know what I would say if I could. What am I supposed to say? Alfred makes it sound like he – I don't know – wants me to be interested in him. But that's not possible. Because someone like Alfred wouldn't…I mean he would never…Oh, for God's sake, Alfred's like the definition of a straight male! Why does he insist on confusing me with these thoughtless remarks? Maybe I should just go ahead and finish my story, and then he'll shut up.

"I'm gay," I echo into the room; internally relieved by how normal my voice sounded. I observed Alfred's blank face silently before quickly resuming my confession, "That's why I quit the soccer team in high school. Someone on the team found out, and then they confronted me about it, and…Well, it just seemed like a good idea to leave that environment." So there Alfred, take that.

But Alfred didn't look away, and searched my face even after I stopped talking, then asked seriously, "Did they bully you?"

"Um," I start awkwardly. I don't like pushing my past onto other people, especially if it'll just make them uncomfortable, so I decide to give Alfred an edited account, "Yeah…in a way. But it wasn't so much physical, as it was…verbal you could say." Hopefully Alfred has enough imagination to gather what verbal abuse is. I know it must be far from anything he has ever encountered – being the perfect golden boy he is.

"I'm sorry," he said, as he gazed at me empathetically. I was pleasantly surprised, and very grateful, that he chose this moment to be the more intuitive soul and returned him a bitter smile.

"Well, it's all in the past n –"

"You need a hug!" Alfred interrupts, dropping his sketchbook and pencil to the floor, and making the preemptive move to tackle me before I processed what he said. And before I knew it, Alfred had run around the bed, and pulled me up from my awkward leaning stance, into a snug embrace.

I'm ashamed to say the first thing that came to my mind when he hugged me was: he's so warm. And I'm even more ashamed to say the second was: he smells nice. But having an Alfred hug you is like having a human-sized teddy-bear hug you. Against all of my better judgment, it felt so comfortable to be pulled into his broad chest, and press my ear to his heart. Of course, it slightly irked me that our height difference was enough so that Alfred was able to rest his chin on top of my hair – am I really that short? But after some indefinite amount of time, the pressure became reassuring, and I closed my eyes to listen to the beating of his heart. I pretended it was my imagination, but I could've sworn that the rhythm of his heart sped up when I finally looped my arms around his back.

And then I came crashing back to reality when I heard a shrill "RIIIINNNNNGGG" split the ambience in half.

"Dammit," I swore quietly, then proceeded to unhook my arms from Alfred, and gently push his chest away. "That's my phone." I step backwards from him and press a cool hand to my overheated cheek. I don't dare look at Alfred's face, because I don't want to know what he thought of me prolonging a hug which I'm sure he only meant to be a friendly gesture. Instead, I dart from the room and into his bathroom to search through my jacket pocket for my phone. When I finally manage to find it, I catch Alfred loitering near the door with a misty look in his eyes. I hold up a finger to show him I'll address him after I answer the call, and press the green button. "Hello," I say breathily, immediately horrified at my voice.

"Um, hey Arthur…"

"Matthew?" I turn away from Alfred, and start gathering my clothes. I already know something must have happened. "What did Gilbert do?"

"Well, he got into a fight with his band, so he went out. Then I got a phone call from this bar, and apparently he's causing a…scene there."

"Bloody hell, it's still the early afternoon," I reply, as I stack my clothes under one arm, and start walking out of the door, avoiding eye contact with Alfred as I do so. "Are you on your way there?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah, I'll be there soon. But Arthur…I can't handle Gilbert by myself." Matthew's voice trembles through the phone.

"I know, I'll be there soon," I assure him, and begin stuffing all of the clothes I brought into the canvas bag; also collecting the clothes Alfred spread about the couch. As I position the full bag on the shoulder, and I reach down to pick up my bag of books, I continue, "Have you called Ludwig?"

"Well, I did, but he's not coming."

"Why the hell not?" I huff, and turn around to see Alfred standing by the door. He has a sympathetic look to his face, so I'm assuming he's caught onto the drift of my conversation.

"He says he has homework to do…" Matthew complains.

"He's too serious for his own good," I sigh into the phone, then decide to finish the call, "Um, Matthew, how about you text me the address and I'll call you when I'm near, okay?" I hear him begin to gripe, so I hang up and shove the phone in my pocket.

"So, you have to go?" Alfred asks knowingly.

"Yeah," I sigh and return his awkward eye contact. He doesn't say anything more, so I take hesitant steps towards the door. He opens the door and steps to the side, but as I pass through I look up, feeling as if I should say something.

But Alfred decides to pipe up with a quick smile and say, "You should come back soon, okay!"

"Sure," I manage to say, and linger a beat too long in his gaze, before slipping through the door, and towards the stairs.

"Wait, what's you number?" Alfred calls after me. Then adds quickly, "So I can tell you when to come again…"

I stare up at him from my place on the stairs, and start to give him my number.

"Wait, I don't have anything to write it down with! Let me grab a pen!" He ducks into the apartment and the door slams shut. After five seconds of staring at the door, it swings open and Alfred's back with a pen poised over his hand. "Okay, shoot!"

With a sigh I repeat it and he scribbles down in tandem with my voice.

"Got it!" He smiles at his hand.

I watch him grin and I return the smile, but instantly catch myself, and start scrambling down the stairs again. As loud as my shoes were clacking on the wooden steps, I found it comforting to hear something louder than my own heartbeat, and continued racing down the four flights of stairs as hastily as I could. Just as I reached the bottom floor I heard Alfred yell, "I can't wait to see you on our next date!" And I trip out the front entrance.

God dammit Alfred.


End file.
